


The Girl on the Stairs

by Pharetra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, The Golden Trio, Trans Female Character, Trans Girl Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 07:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11458551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharetra/pseuds/Pharetra
Summary: Harry Potter arrives at Hogwarts — but the dormitory stairs won't let him up.





	The Girl on the Stairs

**Author's Note:**

> What if the Gryffindor dorm stairs were a bit different, stopping girls from visiting the boys' dorms as well as vice-versa?

“BOY! Your hair!” came Aunt Petunia’s shriek.

Harry, used to being woken up like this, sighed. He sat up in his cupboard, and ran his fingers over his hair. Once again he found it had grown a foot since he had gone to bed, and now lay on his shoulders in messy raven curls. This was the fifth time it had happened. Every time he had experienced the same dream in the night — the dream Aunt Petunia had forbade him from speaking of since the first occasion when he was four. Harry sat dejectedly until Petunia returned with scissors and began to hack away at his hair. “This had better not happen again, or I may have to ask Vernon to give you a proper thrashing.”

Harry’s frustration burst out, “I didn’t do it on purpose! It just happens!”

“Nonsense, you stupid boy. I know what you’re up to. If only I knew what I was getting into, I would have taken you straight to an orphanage that night,” the woman announced for the third time that week. “Freak!”

Harry slowly collected the curls, now divorced from his scalp. He didn’t know why he liked his hair being that way. He just did. But as usual, he noted, anything that made him remotely happy was an affront to all morality in the eyes of the Dursleys. He tied one lock to hold it together, and hid it under his mat, and took the rest of it to the bin. Maybe if he kept a bit of it, his stupid head wouldn’t feel the need to put it back again and get him in trouble. Still, somewhere deep inside, he wished it would.

* * *

Harry was nearly done shopping in Diagon Alley with Hagrid, they only needed robes and a wand yet. Harry stepped into the lofty space of Madam Malkin’s, and was greeted by piles and piles of robes, and hogwarts uniforms. He moved around the shop, taking in the uniforms for his new school. He was absentmindedly running the fabric of a junior year skirt through his fingers, intrigued by the pleating, when Hagrid came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder, before pausing with a quizzical look. “I’d a’ thought you knew which were the boys ones ’Arry, ain’t no diff’rent to muggle ones,” he said curiously.

Harry cut him off. “Yes, of course I do, I was just— looking,” he mumbled. 

Looking, yes. And feeling. And wishing — but he kept his mouth firmly closed. You’re a boy, Harry, he berated himself internally, and moved to the collection of junior shirts and trousers. He had been given the unimaginable gift of a whole different world filled with people who didn’t hate him, he wasn’t going to let them find out he was a freak too. He did his best to push the thoughts out of his mind and followed Madam Malkin’s instructions in taking measurements without interest. The seamstress had followed the prior exchange from across the shop with curiosity. She made a guess, and elected to take some extra measurements from the child. It couldn’t hurt, and might possibly save time later, she thought, and made a mental note to floo call the headmaster as soon as term began.

* * *

After the feast, a redheaded boy with a stern expression called out down the Gryffindor table. “First years, follow me to your new common room and dorms.”

Ron, Harry’s new friend from the train, poked him and whispered, “that’s my brother Percy. Acts like he’s the Mugwump ever since they made him prefect.” Harry chose to let the question of what a “mugwump” was slide for now.

The gaggle of newly minted Gryffindors rose and followed Percy out of the great hall, chatting amongst themselves. Harry mostly kept quiet, listening to Ron and marvelling at the great moving staircases, suits of armour and walls covered in moving paintings. Soon after, the group pooled at the top of a staircase in front of the portrait of a large woman surrounded by fruit. Percy cleared his throat. “Gryffindors! First years, listen up! This is the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. The password is ‘Fortuna Major’. Now please assemble in the common room. Quietly!” he added. “Your dormitories are up these staircases, boys on the left, girls on the right. First years are on the first landing. I strongly suggest you get to sleep, as you’ve all a long day tomorrow.”

He moved to a group of girls at the back. “Miss Patil,” he began, “your chair should be suitably charmed to ascend the staircase. Let me know if you have any problems.” The girl smiled up at him gratefully from what Harry guessed was the wizarding equivalent of a wheelchair. Boys and girls began to trudge up the staircases, suddenly aware of how exhausted they were. Harry stepped up behind Ron, who was still babbling about how good the dorms were according to his brothers. Harry couldn’t help but daydream a little, imagining having siblings like Ron. Without warning, he felt a strong force lift him from his feet and push him backwards, and before he could react he landed with a thump on the common room floor. Picking himself up with a grimace, Harry looked imploringly for an explanation from Ron and the other wizard-raised children.

“What?!” Was Ron’s only response.

Deciding he was thoroughly sick of the obtuse conventions of the wizarding world for one day, Harry dusted himself off and moved determinedly to climb the staircase. Just as he began to think it was working, Harry felt his feet leave the floor once more. He curled up, anticipating another painful landing on his already sore back, as he was thrust back onto the floor.

“Cor!” exclaimed Ron, running over to his friend. “Not even Fred and George got kicked out of the dormitories! Should we have another go?” He asked enthusiastically, moving to grab Harry’s hand and pull him up.

An unfamiliar but maternal voice spoke from behind them. “Perhaps it might be better to wait for the Housemistress, child.”

Harry turned to see a portrait of a middle aged woman in a kitchen. She continued, “No sense bruising you further. Come sit on the couch,” she indicated the large couch in front of the fireplace in the middle of the room. “The castle does not make mistakes,” she said with a thoughtful look. Harry slowly stood up, suppressing a groan, and turned to Ron.

“You should go up to bed. Don’t worry about me,” he reassured. Ron looked reluctant. “Go on,” Harry insisted. “No point in us both losing sleep. I’ll see you later.”

He moved towards the well-used piece of furniture, unsure if he was really allowed to sit on it himself. “Freaks don’t get to use the furniture,” the voice of Aunt Petunia screeched in his head. Nevertheless, not wishing to disobey the portrait, Harry reluctantly lowered himself onto a cushioned corner.

Ron shuffled to the staircase, feeling lost. He snuck one last glance as he ascended at his new friend, perched on the edge of the couch. _Was it the castle?_ He wondered. _But the painting had said it never made mistakes. Did that mean… it was Harry?_

Harry sat on one corner of the couch, his bony frame barely making a dint in the worn red velvet. His posture gave the impression of a frightened prey mammal, trying to shrink itself out of existence. The last students trudged to their dorms, few even noticing Harry ( _good,_ he thought). The lady in the portrait began to speak again. Harry assumed, being the only one left in the room, it was addressed to him.

“My, what a child!” pondered the motherly woman, as she leant on the bench in the kitchen within her frame. “A child special in so many ways. I recognise those beautiful eyes so like your mothers’ — but I suppose everyone says that.”

“A few,” Harry mumbled in reply.

“Try not to worry. I’ve sent for Professor McGonagall, your Head of House. She may seem strict, but she loves each and every one of her students.”

Harry retreated even further into the couch, but he hazarded a glance at the portrait lady trying to reassure him. She was smiling at him in a way that reminded Harry distinctly of Ron’s mum at the station. She leaned further towards him. “You’re not the first, and I rather doubt will be the last of your kind, child. In fact, a little owl told me,” — she winked conspiratorially — “that there’s a lovely young man in Hufflepuff you really ought to meet. He’s in fourth year, but I’m certain he’ll be able to help set your mind at ease.”

* * *

Harry had been waiting for some time; about forty minutes, he thought, but he was used to that. He hadn’t had the courage to ask the portrait any direct questions, because with adults, that usually meant getting in trouble.

Suddenly, the common room door burst open, and a pair of visibly displeased redheads, probably twins, entered in a bizarre parody of a lockstep march. Following them with her wand raised was a severe woman.

“Honestly, you two, making a mischief before the feast had even finished, you ought to be ashamed! This had better not be indicative of the year to come! Detention with me tomorrow evening,” she berated the twins.

“Yes Professor, sorry Professor,” the two apologised in eerie synchronicity, but their expressions were hardly repentant as their legs dragged them involuntarily up the dormitory stairs.

The troublemakers dealt with, Minerva McGonagall turned to survey the common room. She almost missed the hunched figure perched on the couch, and opened her mouth to question the child for being out of bed. However, before she could voice her displeasure, the portrait of the baker’s wife cleared her throat and beckoned the wizened Housemistress over.

Harry tried his best to subtly listen in on the whispered conversation between the Scottish woman and the portrait, just in case it might help him avoid punishment, but he was too far away to catch anything, and didn’t want to draw attention by moving. The women spoke with a worried tone though, and the boy burned with embarrassment at causing a scene.

Harry couldn’t bear so much attention and worry on his behalf. He stood and interjected as politely as he could.

“Er, pardon me madams, I’m very sorry for causing all this trouble. I’m happy to sleep anywhere, really. In there would be fine,” he indicated a cupboard set into the furnishing under the spiral staircase to the boys’ dorms. “I’m used to it,” he added, earnestly. McGonagall and the lady looked at him with an emotion he found difficult to read. Disappointment? No… pity? It was too unfamiliar for him to be sure, and that set him on edge.

Seeing the child’s wariness and fear of upsetting her, McGonagall decided they had ignored Harry long enough.

“My poor child,” she began in a much kinder tone, “you haven’t the slightest reason to apologise. Really it is I who should be apologising to you, for not being here to help you sooner. Now if you please, follow me just a little way.” She could see the fear on Harry’s face build, and made a note to ask Poppy to examine the child for signs of abuse as soon as possible, if his demeanour was anything to go by.

“I give you my word I am not here to hurt or punish you, only to look after you.” She took the eleven-year-old’s hand and felt it relax a little as she gently coaxed Harry up from the couch and across the room. He watched only the back of her robes swishing to and fro, mentally berating himself for managing to be a freak even in this new world, and now causing the lady to have to punish him. He was surprised to note they were beginning to climb a spiral staircase, not unlike the one he had been thrown from twice earlier. A realisation clicked as the matronly lady slowly came to sit on a step just in front of a small window looking out from the tower, beckoning Harry to sit beside her.

“But… Miss… er, Professor Mcgonagall, isn’t this the girls dormitory stairs?” he finally stuttered out. 

“Yes,” said the witch, simply. 

“But why would the boys’ stairs throw me out and the girls’ let me in?” asked Harry, an edge of fear returning to his voice.

“I think that is something you will have to tell me yourself, if and when you feel inclined to do so,” Minerva spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice. Harry’s eyes grew wide, awash with emotions.

“But… But I’m not… At least…” the child stuttered, searching for words. 

The kind witch turned to look out the window, over the lights of the castle. “Aren’t you?”

Harry fell silent. Minerva took the fine hand of the child again.

“I accept you for whomsoever you tell me you are, for it is your business to know.” The small figure turned from the window back to his ( _her?_ came a small voice inside) professor’s face, then dropped his eyes again.

A quiet voice asked unsteadily, “I won’t be in trouble? Or a burden?”

Minerva shook her head. “Not in the slightest.”

Harry looked at his feet. Her feet. “I think… I might… I feel like…” there was a gulp and a pause. “I’m a girl.”

Gently McGonagall held the child to her side. “You are,” she spoke eventually. “You certainly are a most amazing girl.” Nearly ten years of held-back tears flooded out in relief and sheer exhaustion as the diminutive girl crumpled into the witch’s voluminous green robes.

Harry’s last memory that night was of feeling weightless as she was floated in the foetal position, wrapped in a tartan blanket that seemed to come from nowhere, crying, up the stairs, through a door and onto the softest bed she had ever felt.

* * *

Harry woke gently from dreamless sleep, and opened her eyes. She was lying on a four poster bed with red bedcovers and curtains drawn closed. Outside the cocoon of privacy she heard voices, including those of the girl from the train — Hermione, she thought— and Professor McGonagall. She sat up, mystified at the red and gold pyjamas she seemed to be wearing, and felt that her hair had grown in the night until it fell past her shoulders, just like those times with the Dursleys, but this time she couldn’t recall any dream. She parted the curtain closest to her, eager to find where she had been taken the night before. Stepping out, Harry was greeted by McGonagall with a prim “good morning, dear”, and by Hermione with an astonished expression followed by an enormous hug.

McGonagall touched her hair.

“Well, your magic certainly wasn’t idle while you were sleeping,” she observed.

Two other girls waved at Harry, and she recognised them as Parvati Patil from her floating chair, and Lavender Brown, who had accompanied her at the sorting.

“Harry…” Hermione and McGonagall both began. The Head of House continued, “I have explained your situation to Miss Granger, Miss Patil, and Miss Brown. They are to be your housemates for this year. I have owled Madam Malkin regarding your robes. The new ones should arrive in a few days, and I shall return the ones you shan’t be needing. I am happy to provide an owl-order form for her shop if you find yourself with further clothing requirements.” McGonagall glanced distastefully at Harry’s trunk, and the girl coloured, realising her professor must have looked inside it the previous night in search of pyjamas. “In the meantime, Miss Granger has assured me you may borrow a set of hers for the present. Breakfast will begin shortly, don’t be late.” The woman turned and left the room before Harry could thank her.

Harry turned to Hermione, trying to work out how to explain everything. Hermione shushed her and hugged her again. She babbled into Harry’s ear, “Why didn’t you tell us? I’m not angry, I just wish I could have helped. You’re such a brave girl Ha— is Harry alright? Is there a different name you would prefer?” Harry paused to think about it.

“How about Harriet?” suggested Hermione slowly, watching her friend intently for her response. The green-eyed girl blushed a little and spoke quietly.

“I’m not sure— it sounds so much like my old name. And um,” she swallowed. “I’ve always really liked Alexandra.” Cautiously peering out from under her fringe and seeing Hermione’s kind expression, she added quickly, “Allie for short,” and managed a nervous smile.

Hermione lit up. “Allie! That’s such a lovely name!” she bounced over and embraced Allie again, and the touch-starved girl melted into her arms. After a minute, Hermione let go reluctantly and took a skirt and a blouse from the wardrobe between the new girl’s bed and her own. She handed them to Allie with an encouraging smile. The shy girl walked into the shared bathroom and shut the door, then sat down on the floor, trying to absorb the morning’s revelations.

 _I’m girl, in a girls dormitory, with other girls, with girl’s clothes!_ Suddenly the happiness of being introduced to the wizarding world seemed to pale into insignificance. For the first time in her life, she was accepted for who she was — even the secret part of her she thought she could never let out.

Allie dressed quickly, finding Hermione’s skirt rather big on her slight frame. She couldn’t wait to get rid of Dudley’s enormous gross boxers. She frowned, uncomfortably reminded of the parts of her body ‘down there’, but dressing how she felt made them so much easier to bear. Anyway, she told herself, this is the world of magic. Surely they’ll have something for that.

* * *

Soon the four girls were entering the great hall for breakfast. Parvati had helped Allie safety-pin her borrowed skirt so it fit on her bony hips with a winning smile. Lavender had yet to address Allie, avoiding her gaze, but when she privately asked Hermione about it, worried she was causing her dormmate discomfort, the bookworm was quick to dismiss her concerns. “It takes some people longer than others to get used to these things,” she said apologetically, then turned stern. “If she gives you any trouble, any at all, you’ll tell me, won’t you Allie? We’ll go to Professor McGonagall together.”

They had no sooner installed themselves at the Gryffindor table than Ron came running down the row, attempting to tuck his mis-buttoned shirt into his trousers, his robe falling off one shoulder. “Have any of you seen Harry? He couldn’t get up the stairs last night and this morning he still wasn’t there and McGonagall said that ‘I’d see Potter soon enough’ but I haven’t and—” the redhead tripped on an untied shoelace and sprawled onto the flagstones, disappearing from the girls’ view over the table. After a shuffling noise, his face reappeared, blushing at the other first years’ raucous laughter.

“Shuddup,” he complained, going red at the ears. He froze as his eyes passed Allie’s. “Harry?” he asked with confusion plastered on his face. “Your hair…” he trailed off.

Allie had been thinking about this moment as she came down to breakfast. She had elected to keep things simple. “Um, yes, but actually, I’d prefer Allie. And she,” she announced in as confident a tone as she could muster, which still came out much squeakier and more wavery than she would have liked, but Hermione’s hand touched her arm gently to provide her support.

Ron only looked more confused. “Is this a prank? Are Fred and George here?” he demanded, looking around.

“No, Ron,” she said, after Hermione smiled encouragingly. “This is me. McGonagall helped me work it out last night. I’m— I’m a girl, really.” She turned red and fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. Feeling its realness reassured her.

Understanding dawned on Ron’s face. “So when the castle threw you out—”

“It knew that I was a girl I think, yeah,” she finished quickly, eager to be done with the embarrassingly public conversation.

“Cor,” was all Ron found to say. Hermione rolled her eyes at his lack of eloquence, but Allie could tell that her new friend was pleased Ron hadn’t reacted badly.

Seamus and Dean, two of Ron’s dormmates, had heard the whole conversation from where they’d finally caught up with Ron. They hurriedly introduced themselves. “Hi Allie, I’m Dean,” he introduced, with a lopsided grin.

“Seamus Finnegan, pleasure to meet you.”

Hermione, having been silent longer than seemed usual for her, huffed. “Now that’s much better. Ron, you ought to take some lessons from these gentlemen.” He looked ready to argue, but Hermione continued, ignoring the boy’s glare. “And for heaven’s sake, do up your shoelaces and neaten up your robes! You’ll give Gryffindor a bad name!” Ron recognised a losing battle, and reluctantly leaned down to tie his shoelaces, unwilling to admit the outspoken and stubborn girl was right.

Up at the Head Table, the Head of Gryffindor House was smiling to herself at the antics of the new first years. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her colleague Snape with an odd expression. It looked like he was trying to glare at Potter, but couldn’t hold back a hint of sadness. She was reminded of the unpleasant hints she couldn’t ignore from the previous night.

“Albus,” she called to the twinkly-eyed man, who had also been watching the Potter child, although more subtly. “I need to meet with you in regard to Miss Potter, as soon as possible, preferably with Poppy present.”

The headmaster replied without turning his head. “Very well, Minerva. My office, does 4 o’clock suit?”

Minerva answered in the affirmative.

“I will let Poppy know,” he said, leaving the table.

Minerva quickly conjured a quill and scrap of parchment, having one more thing to do before the start of classes. The shape of the head table made it difficult to be heard by all the staff at once, so charmed notes were her preferred method of communication at breakfast.

> Colleagues,
> 
> The first-year Gryffindor student previously known as Harry Potter will from now on be referred to by feminine appellations (she and Miss) in accordance with her wishes. Until she has settled on a name she wishes to be known by, your rolls will retain her legal name. If she informs you she would like to be called by another name, please do so. If you have any questions or concerns, bring them to me.
> 
> — Minerva

With a wand flick, the parchment dried and multiplied itself, each copy folding in half and floating to one of the other staff members. Some looked surprised, Professor Flitwick squeaked in astonishment, and Snape’s scowl deepened, but Minerva could tell it was a front.

“I wonder what difference it will make for Severus to have to deal with Lily and James’ daughter, rather than their son,” she mused. Only time would tell.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Another trans girl!Harry work for you, my lovelies. I actually wrote this before I started writing Raven's Colours, but didn't polish it into a publishable state until now. In a way, this is my apology for the recent long chapter waits on RC. I make no promises about updating it — I originally wrote it as a one-shot, and it may remain so. I don't know yet.


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